Drover's son

How high the trees must have looked

to the drover's son.

Fern and lichen tickling his toes

on a hot summers day.

Running along light-streaked forest paths

to that old school for boys.

Wondering about his Father's day,

driving cattle to the south.

Wishing he had the stick in his hand

instead of school slate.

Prodding cows to cross the miles

instead of words across a page.

Dreams of sun or even rain

touching his face,

instead of staring through

high school windows,

or feeling hissing coal heat,

from the communal fire.

Liz Niven


The Temple: Diary

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